


Meant to Last

by lq_traintracks (lumosed_quill), traintracks



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Hate Sex, Lingerie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 06:19:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumosed_quill/pseuds/lq_traintracks, https://archiveofourown.org/users/traintracks/pseuds/traintracks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>She was brutal in her love and in her hatred.  God help whoever became the object of either one.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meant to Last

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Written for Kinky Kristmas, 2013

The first time, it was three days after Hermione left, and she'd found him drunk at the Leaky.

"Ronald Weasley," she'd smirked. "What brings you--?"

"Don't," he'd whispered.

Just that one God-awful word and she'd blinked and changed the course of her life.

Pansy didn't know how to be kind. She didn't give comfort. Not ever. Draco had left her for that reason among others. She was brutal in her love and in her hatred. God help whoever became the object of either one.

Ron Weasley was supposed to be a notch on her wand. A broad-shouldered bloke braced over her body in the night, fucking her down into the bed out of vengeance and lust, both.

"Please..." he'd whispered.

And in that moment, he'd eviscerated her.

*

The second time was nothing like the first.

That first fuck had been her riding him hard. It had been his drunken hands sliding up to cup and squeeze her breasts and his eyes still swollen from tears.

She'd cooed, "That's right... That's right..." when he'd pulled on her nipples until she came.

The second time...

"What are you doing here?"

He'd been behind his desk, a third year scurrying out of his office having got a reprieve from detention, and Pansy had stopped dead, seeing him there like that.

He seemed nothing like six months before. He wore his hurt like armor now. Nothing was going to touch him again. And Pansy wanted him so badly, her cunt got slick just watching his unblinking eyes.

"The Minister would appreciate your attendance at the commemoration dinner next month."

He blinked finally. He leaned back in his chair and observed her. Pansy swallowed.

"He sent you?"

"Yes."

"What, did his owl die?"

Her lungs seemed to tighten. She felt something like humiliation pooling in her stomach. Her knickers were soaked through. "I had business in the area," she lied.

At this, he smirked. "Visiting Seamus' office after mine? Or did you just come from there?"

Pansy shifted and took a deep breath. They'd seen each other at the Ministry Christmas Ball two months previously, and she had, indeed, been on Seamus Finnigan's arm -- and then bent over the hood of his Muggle car later. But that had been a dalliance -- a weekend fling. An Irish brogue only got you so far.

"I hadn't known you to be crass, Weasley," she clipped.

He gave her a slow smirk that didn't reach his hard eyes. "You haven't known me at all."

She felt somewhat fortified by the lie. She had known, at least, the sure slide of his cock into her, the way he whined when he came, how neither of them had bothered with clean-up spells after, and she'd walked to her Apparition point with his pungent come leaking out of her.

She'd known how he tried to kiss the corner of her mouth, his clumsy hand pulling her back down into the bed, and how she'd evaded his lips and his need both.

And here she was, back for more of something that he'd never let happen again.

Pansy handed Ron the invitation. She watched him read it, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

"Tell him I'd be happy to," Ron said. And then he wouldn't meet her eyes.

He stood to see her out. His big hand had touched the small of her back, and before she knew what was going on inside his head, he'd locked the door and backed her into his desk, hands fumbling with her skirt and then her panties, and there had been nothing but breath as he'd flipped her around, bent her over, and found her cunt so very wet for him, his fingers sliding between the lips of her sex and making her moan.

"You think I'm an idiot?" he'd said hot behind her ear, his big body pressing and pinning hers down. "You think I don't know what you're on about?" His finger, wet with her arousal, pushed not into her cunt but her anus.

Pansy groaned hard. Ron kicked her feet apart, and he finger-fucked her arse, his broad knuckle breaching her.

"My life's a game to you, right?" he breathed. He fucked and fucked and fucked his finger in, and then he stopped. He opened his robes, and she felt them brushing her buttocks and her exposed cunt. His cock dropped down into her cleft, heavy. She mewled.

She wanted to tell him that yes, it was all a game. And yes, he was laughable to her -- a goon. And yes, she'd pity-fucked him, and it had been a nice half hour out of her life and that she didn't come here for this, want this, dream of this, get herself off to him, that she wasn't ready to beg for his dick up her arse in the middle of the work day.

But all that came out -- all that would manifest -- was, "Please..."

He lined his cock up, let all his breath out against the back of her neck, grabbed the flesh of her buttocks, and drove himself inside.

*

The third time was nothing like the second or first.

That time in his office, after he'd accused her of basically being herself, they'd shut off words and just fucked. He'd taken her hard and fast over his desk, his cock too big for her arsehole and her pussy creaming for every stroke anyway.

He'd grabbed her hair, pulled her head up, and come hot ribbons inside her, not even bothering to get her off.

She would have done it herself -- stayed laid out on the desk, her come-dribbling arse in the air and a hand between her shaking legs -- but he'd straightened, cleared his throat, and croaked out, "Give Seamus my regards. Or Draco or whoever." And he'd unlocked the door and left her there to smooth her skirt down or give the students just getting out of class a real show.

She'd spent the next thirty days walking that one off. Or trying to.

Pansy Parkinson loved sex -- that was a sure thing. But she was no one's bitch. She belonged to no one, and that's how she liked it. She was assistant to the Senior Undersecretary to the Minster, and someday she'd be Minister herself. Pansy played the hand she was dealt, and she wasn't above counting cards, nor did she give a fuck if that's what it took. She enjoyed a good fling, and she shed few tears.

And she couldn't get Ronald Weasley off her mind.

She was rather convinced he was driving her mad.

And for someone she hadn't even seen in a month, that was remarkable in the extreme.

She'd managed to stay busy working through the commemoration dinner; it was her job to line up the speakers, to make sure the salmon went out on time, to keep the alcohol flowing, and keep the building from burning down. She'd done so with flair.

But now Millicent had dragged her to the after party, which just so happened to be at Harry and Draco's new house. _The bridal suite,_ she'd called it when they'd Apparated onto the pavement out front.

Millicent rolled her eyes. "Just because he'd rather be buggered than--"

"Oh, I don't give a flying fuck, Mill," Pansy groused.

She really didn't. If anything she lamented that they could have had some stellar threesomes had Draco not been a ponce and just come out sooner.

It wasn't Draco or The Git Who Screwed that was the problem.

It was the Git's best mate.

Pansy had decided to swear off Ronald Weasley, in fact. She'd decided that like bacon and cocaine and lust potions, he just wasn't good for her. It didn't matter that he was fit in that way that suggested some sort of moonlighting job as a lumberjack. It didn't matter that when she looked at him, she felt a part of herself unhinge that she'd maintained all her life just to survive.

It didn't matter that, over the course of a few months and hardly any contact, he'd wormed his way into her most secret thoughts, her wayward moments, her bed -- even without stepping one foot inside her flat.

Pansy walked into the after party like a celebrity. She put on her best Eat-Me grin, her chin high, slinky dress drawing every wizards' (and several witches') eyes. She worked the room before taking up a glass of champagne. She watched Millicent chat with Draco, Harry close by at his elbow, a possessive hand low on his back. She snorted.

Suddenly, there was a familiar heat at her side.

"Sick, isn't it?"

She turned her head to watch him sip his own champagne. She watched his throat work, the freckles along his tanned neck blending. "Hardly," she gritted out, not quite believing she was about to _defend_ the bastards.

"Not the gay thing," Ron corrected. "Or the bisexual thing or whatever." He shrugged. "Just the whole revolting love business."

She watched his profile as he studiously avoided her eyes. "Not into love, then?"

He blinked. He said nothing.

She turned her attention back to the other side of the room. "Where can a girl get a vodka straight up around here?"

His hand touched her elbow, and she fought down a shiver. "I know where," he said.

She wondered if he'd forgiven her for that thing he thought she'd been, for something she could have done but didn't, or if he just wanted to get pissed and shag.

She told herself to pull away. She told herself a lot of things. And she went with him.

*

They ended up in the master bedroom, lounging on people's discarded coats, taking vodka shots. Ron had raided his friend's liquor cabinet, and they passed the bottle between them. Every once in a while he cast a modified _Glacius_ on their glasses. The cold made Pansy's fingers tingle, and she stuck her hands under the coats to warm them, one and then the other, while they drank.

Ron looked different again. She was just drunk enough to tell him so.

"The dark circles are gone," she said.

A small smile lifted one corner of his mouth. "Are you trying to butter me up for something, Parkinson?"

She let out a low, self-deprecating laugh that seemed to come out in slow motion. "I'm not very good at compliments," she admitted.

When she met Ron's eyes, they'd darkened. With bitterness or arousal, though, she wasn't sure. He downed his drink and poured another. He spilled some on Millicent's coat, and they both snickered.

"Oh, fuck, Bulstrode's going to kill me," Ron whispered.

"How did you know it was hers?"

He cleared his throat. "Because I watched you walk in."

Pansy looked between his eyes. His doleful, open, honest Weasley eyes. They had the beginnings of crow's feet at the corners, and there were bits of grey in the ginger scruff on his cheeks and chin. She couldn't help that she wanted to feel the scratch of it between her thighs.

She shifted, and the slit on her dress opened, revealing one black-stockinged leg and its garter. Pansy didn't move to cover it up, and Ron's gaze descended there unapologetically. Heat built inside her, and Pansy's cunt began to ache and thrum.

"It's too warm in here," she announced. "I'm going out on the balcony. Come along with your booze or not, Weasley."

To her surprise (and relief), Ron smiled at her. And he followed.

They drank in the cold night and watched the unmoving stars.

"Think they'll last?" Pansy asked, chin tilted up to watch grey clouds move fast over the sky.

His hand cupped her waist, and she gasped. It drifted down, over her hip, caressing her arse. "I don't believe in lasting," he told her. But then he slipped behind her, close and warm. He pulled her dress up slowly, bunching it around her waist and then pushing her against the railing to hold it there. His clothed erection pressed into her lacy knickers. The night air touched her legs, the wet of her, and Pansy made a sound in her throat.

Ron's hands roamed from her hips, up her sides. She gripped the railing, and he cupped her breasts, his thumbs moving lazy over her nipples until they were hard. She pushed her arse back against him and heard him inhale.

"Do you believe in lasting, Parkinson?" he whispered against the back of her neck. His open mouth was warm and moist and tender. He pulsed his hips against her arse in promise.

"No," she sighed.

"Good," he said. Then he jerked her panties down and ran his fingers through her wet curls from the front. Big, tough, tender hands...

"Wait," she breathed. He pulled his fingers free, and she ditched her knickers, ripping the garters off, too. She was drunk enough that throwing them over the side felt like a good idea, so she did.

"You're mad," he laughed over her shoulder, his breath tickling her.

"This is news?"

Ron laughed again. He laughed -- not _at_ her but because of her -- and then he unzipped his trousers.

She bent for him, and he slicked her arse with a husky charm and entered her there again.

"You like fucking arse, Weasley?" she got out.

"I like fucking yours," he answered.

He palmed her tits as he fucked her, and Pansy arched her back, not caring if she looked like a slag. Ron's thick fingers pinched her tits. He made a sound of frustration, yanked the front of her dress down, exposing her, and pinched them again.

Pansy dropped a hand between her legs and went at her clit with frantic two-fingered circles. Ron pounded into her. Her arse ached and stung and felt so bloody _full_ and magnificent. She came, groaning against the wind.

*

They'd mended their clothes, and it was that awkward moment when they really should return to the party or snog or something.

"Want to go for some food?" Ron asked, tucking his shirt back into his trousers.

Pansy blinked at him.

"Do you like Chinese?" he went on unfazed.

Pansy swallowed. "Sounds all right."

"I mean, we could always shag on the marital bed instead." He shrugged.

Pansy laughed, her voice changed from a mad orgasm. "As much as I like the idea of that... I am hungry."

Never mind that there was food at the party. Never mind all the reasons not to.

"It's close. Fancy walking?"

'Yeah," she answered.

They found their coats in the pile, snickering once more when they had to move aside Millicent's.

They walked out of the party like ghosts. Maybe like people who didn't belong. They walked in the cold, and they didn't hold hands or snog or anything like that.

Not after the fourth or fifth or even the sixth time.

Not until the seventh. And not because it was meant to last.

 


End file.
